


Pieces

by ccwonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, Post season 12 finale, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-01 01:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12145536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccwonder/pseuds/ccwonder
Summary: After losing Castiel and his mother, Dean Winchester has sworn off hunting. However, one prayer from his brother changes everything-- and Dean is forced to pick up the pieces of himself and try to fit them back together again.





	1. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: Pieces by Rob Thomas

The lake is quiet today.

The waves lap quietly at the shore, minnows darting in and out of the shallows in search of a quick bite. Further out where the bigger fish play, there’s a thin veil of smoky fog hovering over the water’s surface. The hills are shrouded from view, the clouds hanging low over the valley this morning, but one can almost imagine their looming forms where they always sit in the distance. 

It’s dark this morning.

The sun should be rising, but the clouds hide its rays. There’s a cool breeze coming in from the east, and the wind chimes on the porch tinkle softly with each soft blow. It’s honestly a bit chilly, but he doesn’t notice; he never seems to notice these things, anymore.

Sam will watch from the window, unsure whether going outside would make things better or worse.

Dean has been like this for weeks. He sits in the same white lawn chair, facing the same lake, cradling the same cup of coffee, wrapped in the same worn cotton blanket. He doesn’t sleep much anymore, hardly eats. Sam thinks he’s heard maybe three words from his brother since it happened, and that was only because it was absolutely necessary. He sits in that damn chair and stares out at a lake, as if waiting for it to rise up and swallow him.

There’s a crude cross forced into the damp dirt near the shores edge, just two warped sticks tied together with rope they’d found in the lake-house garage. Three letters are carved into the lateral stick, wobbly and awkward. Dean was usually so precise with a knife, but his hands had been shaking so hard that day, his vision blurred with fatigue; the cross’s dedication was a miserable tribute to the man buried beneath it.  
__  
CAS  
  
Dean hadn’t even been able to write the angel’s full name.

Sam will sigh, tear his eyes away from the window and move back towards the kitchen table. There’s seven different lore books open on its top, each one reading in a different language. His laptop is open to three different translation pages; Portuguese, Gaelic, Hieroglyphs. He’d been looking for weeks for a locator spell that might help them track down the antiChrist, wherever it was he had escaped to during the chaos that night, or something that might open an interdimensional doorway that might lead them back to their mother.

Dean just sat in that damn chair.

Sam had no way of knowing the turmoil his brother faced. He didn’t know what went on in his head, why he cried out in the middle of the night, or just how much Dean just wanted to give up after their most recent defeat. 

Losing their mother was one thing, Dean thought. He had lost her before, had already been through the grieving process. Not to mention, they weren’t all that close after she came back. She wasn’t the same soft woman he remembered from childhood, no, she was all hard edges and merciless strength. Her maternal urges were long gone, apparently left in the grave she arose from. No, losing her wasn’t hard. Upsetting, maybe, but not hard.

Losing Cas was different.

He’d lost Cas before, yes, but it was never final. He’d watched Leviathans tear the angel apart, seen Lucifer explode his every atom, left the guy in purgatory-- but every single time, there was hope. He never before witnessed the blinding white of Castiel’s grace burning out inside its host, had never seen the ashy outline of his wings spread out across the ground. He had never had to bury Castiel’s body, feel the way it sagged limply in his arms when he carried it to the grave.

He had never been sure that Castiel was dead until now.

But how could Sam know that? How could he know that Dean was suffering a grief so bone deep that not even alcohol would numb it this time around? He couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly know.

So Sam grieved in his own way, burying himself in books, and Dean drank in the sight of the lake like it might get him drunk enough to forget.

It went on for a month, until Dean finally wandered in the house late one afternoon and inquired about any nearby burger joints. Sam could have cried he was so relieved to hear his brother, but instead he simply shrugged and set about finding the nearest place with a decent burger.

And that brought them to now, sitting across from each other in a booth, neither quite sure what to say. 

Dean is the first to speak.

“I’m gonna look for a job,” He announces, taking a sip of his beer. “Want to save up some money. Get a real headstone for Cas,”

“I found some stuff in the books,” Sam replies conversationally. “We might be able to get Mom back.”

“Do we have the kind of man power to do something like that, Sammy?” Dean sighs, shaking his head. “I mean… Everyone we know is dead. It’s just you and me, now,”

“Dean, it’s mom,” 

“And she would understand if we didn’t want to risk one of us getting killed to get her back,” Dean picks at the table top, watching out the window as cars pass on the highway. It’s a small diner not too terribly far from the lake house, just off the side of the highway. The waitresses all wear the same dresses and the music is lost to the fifties.

“You… Really don’t want to try to find her?” Sam whispers.

“Sam, wherever she is, Lucifer is with her.” Dean sighs. “What’s to say she’s even still alive?”

That’s a cause for hesitation, and Sam isn’t sure what to say. Luckily, the waitress wanders over with their food and sets the plates carefully before them. Dean’s bacon cheeseburger is almost as large as his head when he picks it up, and Sam prods at his salad with a bent fork.

“I’m not trying to be harsh,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of bread and meat and cheese. “‘M just sayin’ Sammy,” 

Sam takes a bit of his salad as Dean swallows.

“I lost my best friend,” Dean says quietly, pausing before correcting himself. “We lost Cas. Do we really need to put ourselves up for grabs next?”

“I… Guess not,” Sam concedes, though every fiber of his being is telling him how wrong it is to forsake his own mother if there might even be the slightest chance she’s still alive somewhere. Dean was right though; there was little to no chance that their mother was still alive. He had seen the fury in Lucifer’s eyes when they fell back through the closing portal.

“Fine, it’s settled then-- we’re done,” Dean says, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth. Sam is as disgusted as he is relieved; Dean has lost weight, and it’s good to see him eating again.

“Done?”

“Done hunting,” Dean clarifies.

“Done what?” Sam chokes, nearly dropping his fork. He must have missed something. “Dean, the antiChrist is out there somewhere. Did you forget about that?”

“It’s someone else’s problem,” Dean says. “We’ve done our part.”

“Are you serious?” Sam hisses, and a couple a few booths away turns to look at them over their shoulders. Sam lowers his voice. “Dean--”

“Sam.” Dean cuts him off, and his voice is stronger than Sam has heard it in a long time. “We did our part, okay? We lost everything. Everyone. I can’t….” He hesitates, and Sam almost misses the crack in his voice as his brother looks down at his fries. “I’m done, alright? This is God’s deal. He can come back and handle it himself.”

“Are you serious?” Sam gawks.

“Yes,” Dean nearly shouts, slamming a fist down on the table. Everyone in the restaurant stills and Sam swallows nervously as Dean stands, reaching in his pocket and fishing out a bill. He drops it on the table, exhaling slowly. “I’m done, Sam. And I don’t want to hear anymore about it.”

He heads for the door, but before Sam can ask where he’s going, Dean says over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at the house.”

He’s gone before Sam can question him.

Sam boxes up the rest of their food after nearly an hour of just sitting there, and finds the keys in the door of the Impala when he wanders into the parking lot. He drives her home, slow and steady, scanning the streets for Dean. There’s no sight of him.

When he wanders into the kitchen, he’s relieved to spot Dean out the kitchen window.

He’s not in the chair.

He’s sitting in the dirt beside Cas’s grave, one hand on the cross and his head turned towards the sky. For a moment, Sam is almost sick; the sight so mimics the night Cas died, the way Dean fell beside him. He shakes it away though, instead watching the way Dean’s lips move minutely in the dim evening light. It looks almost like he’s praying, but Sam knows he wouldn’t. Not after everything that’s happened.

So Sam puts the leftovers in the fridge and wanders up to one of the bedrooms in the lake-house that he’s claimed as his own, sitting on the bed and bowing his own head. It’s a lot easier to pray now, knowing Chuck might be listening somewhere.

 _I know Dean would never ask, but…_ He hesitates, unsure what exactly it is that Dean wouldn’t ask for. Help? Guidance?... _He’s really hurting and if you could just… Ease that, somehow, I think that maybe… Maybe we might make it through this._

He falls into the mattress, unsure if his prayers have been heard, and lays awake as long as he can listening for Dean to come back in.

He falls asleep long before Dean comes back in.


	2. Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Waiting Game" by Parson James

Dean gets a job at a resort across the lake. It’s nothing fancy, just valeting on the weekends and waiting tables during the week, but it keeps the power on at the lake house and food in their bellies. He’s been doing it for a few weeks, and it’s helped draw him away from his chair on the edge of the lake. Sam works night-shifts at a gas station, so most of the time they don’t see each other, but after their fight in the diner Dean is alright with that. He’d rather let the tension die than have to talk it out.

It’s been a long shift, and when Dean stumbles in through the front door of the lakehouse after dark, he’s ready to take a long shower and crawl into his bed. Although having a job has gotten him out of the house, it hasn’t necessarily cured the depression - and that’s what it is, he knows, but he won’t call it that - from his mind. Every morning it’s a struggle to get out of bed, and every night there’s a bigger struggle to get to sleep. 

Dean had taken up the master bedroom as his own after they got rid of Kelly’s body and cleaned it out a bit. From the window, there was a stunning view of the lake-- and Castiel’s grave. And every night, Dean found himself staring at the mound of dirt, willing it to move. 

Tonight is no different, and Dean lies down in bed facing the window. Castiel’s grave sits silently at the edge of the lake, and the moon casts shadows across the bedroom as he closes his eyes and tries to rest.

He isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but he’s suddenly standing in a narrow alley in a vaguely familiar city. Some part of him is aware that he’s dreaming, but he’s lost in the scene. The soft hum of neon lights and the damp bricks are bringing back memories that Dean can’t quite place a finger on. He’s so busy looking around that he almost misses the figure barreling towards him until he’s on top of him.

There’s hands on his shoulders, shoving him back into the bricks, and he gasps as the memory slams into him as hard as he’s being forced into the bricks. 

“Cas,” He chokes, and the angel is scowling at him. His eyes are more blue than Dean remembers, and he can’t help but smile at the sight. Until Cas starts punching him, that is, and then he remembers just how bad that this hurt.

Cas is talking, growling more like, but Dean takes it; he takes every last punch, just like he remembers, until he’s on all fours in a muddy puddle and all he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears. He spits blood, and his ribs ache, and he rasps a weak, “Please,”

Please, what? Please keep hitting me? Please make me feel again? Please come back?

Please.

Cas is looming over him now, just like he did that day, but there’s something different about him. He’s less hard than Dean remembers, more like the Cas that Dean had come to know in recent years. Dean is heaving trembling breaths where he is collapsed on the ground, and he knows what’s coming next; the black release of sleep, when Cas inevitably mojos him to sleep.

But it doesn’t come.

Castiel takes a step forward, but the narrative changes; he’s crouched in front of Dean now, cerulean eyes examining him like a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. Dean isn’t breathing, head swimming in the face of that gaze.

“Dean,” His voice is soft, and Dean swallows as he leans forward and cups the hunters face in his hands. His palms are softer than Dean would have thought as he draws their faces together and presses a delicate kiss to Dean’s bloodied lips.

Dean doesn’t have it in him to be alarmed.

“Why did you let me die?” 

He whispers it against Dean’s mouth.

Dean is sobbing.

 _I didn’t want to_ , he tries to say, _I would have done anything to save you_ , but the words never come.

“I died for you, Dean,” Cas is leaning away, and Dean wants to chase him, but all he can do is stay shaking on all fours. He’s frozen as the angel retreats, standing over him once more. “You should have saved me.”

Cas rears back, hand curled into a fist, and lunges forward towards him-- 

and Dean wakes up.

The sheets are twisted around him like a vice and he’s sweating, mouth open in what he thinks may be a scream. His throat isn’t sore like it usually is when he calls out in his sleep, but all the muscles in his body are tense. It wasn’t often that he suffered from sleep paralysis, but it happened enough that he knew the signs. He sighs, combing a hand through his hair. His mouth is tingling with the memory of Cas’s lips, and he isn’t sure what the hell to think about that. It’s all just wrong, so wrong.

Everything feels so wrong without Cas here.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He reaches for the gun in the nightstand drawer out of sheer instinct, stealing a glance at the bedside clock. It’s only three in the morning, and Dean knows Sam shouldn’t be home for another two or three hours at least. It takes some work to untangle himself from the sheets, but he manages it after a second and climbs silently to his feet. 

He’s in nothing but his boxers, and there’s nothing but regular old bullets in the chamber. The situation is less than ideal he thinks as he creeps towards the hallway, stepping over the creaky board to the left of the doorway and peering into the hallway. Sure enough, there’s a figure in the hallway. It looks like a man from behind, or a woman with shorter hair, way too short to be Sammy.

He’s peering into the unused bedroom, the one that was intended to be a nursery before the antiChrist murdered his mother and ran away, and Dean carefully releases the safety and steps into the hallway. 

“You’re robbing the wrong house, buddy,” Dean gruffs. “Put your hands up and we can settle this without the cops,”

The figure leans out of the doorway, his hands slowly rising over his head.

“That’s good,” Dean nods, flipping his safety back on. “Now turn around slowly.”

The figure does so and when the moonlight illuminates his face, Dean can’t help his reaction; he’s tackling him, gun pressed to the soft tissue beneath his chin as he straddles him in the hallway.

“Well hello to you, too, handsome,” Gabriel chuckles beneath him and Dean releases his safety, finger resting heavy on the trigger.

“You have exactly ten second to explain what the hell is going on or I will blow your brains all over the wall, you hear me?” Dean is reeling because this is impossible. He was dead. Dean was there, saw the giant span of his wings burnt into the walls. He watched Castiel grieve this asshole, helped him move past it. There was no way he was real.

“Easy there, bucko,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, and before Dean knows what’s happening he’s being thrown against the far wall, suspended in mid air as Gabriel climbs to his feet and brushes imaginary dust from his clothes. He’s dressed in dark clothes, his hair slicked back. He looks thinner than Dean remembers. “I’m here to help, okay?”

“You’re dead.” Dean snarls, doing his best to fight the invisible pressure against his chest. 

“Well, dead is such a… Fluid term, isn’t it?” Gabriel sighs, picking up a lore book sitting on the hall table and examining it with little interest before setting it aside once more. 

“I saw you, asshole. Lucifer drove an angel blade through your heart.”

“You saw what I wanted, Dean,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “It’s called survival, alright? I needed the big boys to think I was dead, so I made it happen.”

“Cas grieved you.” Dean hisses, and it hurts to say his name; it always does. That seems to strike a chord with Gabriel, and he sighs softly as he glances at his shoes.

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.” He whispers, and a moment of quiet passes between them before Gabriel perks up again. “Now. If I let you down, can we discuss this like adults?” 

Dean nods shortly, and suddenly he’s falling to his knees on the floor. He curses, knowing his knees will be bruised, and climbs to his feet. Gabriel watches from a safe distance. 

“Why now?” Dean nearly spits the words. “You’re a little late, in case you missed the memo. Cas is dead, my mom is locked in a different dimension with your dick-bag brother, the antiChrist is on the loose. You’re better off out there,”

“Coming here wasn’t my first pick, believe me,” Gabriel snaps back. The house seems to tremble with his voice. “You think I wanted to come here and see the shit-storm Cas left behind? I’m here on behalf of my Father,”

“Oh, really?” Dean laughs, but it’s bitter. “Shouldn’t Daddy be busy cleaning up his messes?”

“He’s doing what he can, Dean.” Gabriel sighs. “He’s still weak, after his fight with Amara. He’s healing. He needs your help,”

“No.” Dean doesn’t even think before the word leaves his mouth and he’s turning around, moving into his bedroom. Gabriel follows. 

“I beg your pardon?” The angel asks. Dean pulls a pair of jeans from his drawer, stepping into them with his back still turned to his companion.

“I said no. I guess you missed the memo-- I don’t hunt anymore.”

“Don’t hunt anymore?” Gabriel laughs. “You’ve got to be joking,”

“I’m not.” Dean moves to the closet. “I’m out. Find yourself another monkey.”

“The world is at stake and you’re telling me you just want to put your feet up and watch it burn?” Gabriel demands as Dean slides a shirt on over his head. The ex-hunter spins to face him, eyes alight with a fire they haven’t had in months.

“You heard me.” He growls. “You can tell your dad to stick it where the sun don’t shine. I’m done. I have lost everyone I care about. Sam is all I have left, and I’m not risking him, you got it?”

Gabriel simply stares, so Dean pushes past him, back into the hallway and down the stairs.

“You can get your feathery ass out of my house now.”

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Gabriel is suddenly standing in front of him and he stumbles to a stop.

“I don’t think you understand,” Gabriel says, and his voice is tempered. “I’m not asking, Dean.”

“I don’t think _you_ understand,” Dean replies. “I’m not doing it.”

He steps around the arch angel, going to start a fresh pot of coffee.

“What will it take?” Gabriel demands. 

“Nothing,” Dean is desperate for some peace and quiet at this point. He doesn’t want to have this fight. He wants to drink his coffee and get ready for work. “I told you, I’m retired.”

“What if we rescue your mom?”

“She’s dead, you know that as well as I do,” Dean sighs, pulling a mug from the cabinet. 

“What if she’s not?” 

“Then Sam and I will figure it out,” Dean replies, sticking his mug straight under the stream of coffee. Some splashes on his fingers, burning him, but he doesn’t flinch. Gabriel is quiet for a blissful moment and Dean thinks he might have gone, but he has no such luck.

“What about Cas?”

“He’s dead.” Dean grumbles. “Are you deaf?”

“What if we can bring him back?”

Dean hesitates before dropping sugar in his coffee. His stomach does an uneasy flip, but he doesn’t give in. 

“Don’t you think we would have already, if there was a way? Angels don’t have souls. It’s not like we can bring him back from somewhere,”

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you have,” Gabriel challenges. “It’s fair to say I know a little more.”

Dean turns, narrowing his eyes. 

“How can I believe you? You lied about being dead for years,” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “If I can prove to you that Cas can be brought back, will you help?”

“You rescue my mom, too. If there’s anything left to rescue.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Take it or leave it,” Dean crosses his arms over his chest, and Gabriel hesitates before nodding. 

“Alright. Fine. I’ll be back later-- make sure your brother is here,”

“Why?” Dean arches a brow.

“I like him better,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, and just as quickly is gone.

**⛥⛥⛥**

It’s hours before Sam gets home, but when he does he finds Dean sitting by Cas’s grave. It’s an odd sight, considering Dean is usually gone for work by now.

“Hey,” He says experimentally. Dean glances at his brother over his shoulder and motions him to sit in the dirt beside him. He does, glancing at the cross to their right. It’s the first time he’s sat at Castiel’s graveside since they buried him, Sam realizes. This space had seemed too sacred to Dean for Sam to infringe upon it before now. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Had an early morning visitor,” Dean says. He’s watching the lake. “Listen, Sam… I… I’m sorry, about what I said in the diner… We shouldn’t just give up on mom.”

“Alright,” Sam arches a brow. “What do you mean you had a visitor?”

“Gabriel was here.” 

“Dean… Gabriel is dead,” Sam says slowly. He has an urge to reach out and feel his brother’s forehead, make sure he isn’t feverish. Dean had been out of sorts for months since Cas died, but Sam didn’t think he was anywhere near hallucinations. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean snorts, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “And no, I’m not crazy, so don’t look at me like that,”

“Did you check him? I mean… Anyone could be masquerading as him,” Sam insists.

“He seemed pretty damn like Gabriel to me,” Dean shakes his head. “But we can check him when he gets back, if you want.”

“Gets back?” Sam echoes.

“I… Made a deal, with him.” Dean says, and Sam’s heart jumps out of habit. The word ‘deal’ never meant anything good where a Winchester was involved, but he waited; Dean would explain himself. “If… If he finds Mom, and brings Cas back, we’ll help with the antiChrist situation.”

“Dean,” Sam sighs. “Cas… Cas can’t come back. Believe me, I’ve looked everywhere for anything that might be able to do it, and… I’ve come up empty every time.”

“I know,” Dean nods, reaching out to touch the wooden cross at his side. The touch is almost instinct, Sam thinks, as if he’s not really thinking about what he’s doing. “But if there’s even a sliver of a chance, Sammy…”

“I know.” Sam nods, even though he doesn’t. He never understood Dean and Cas’s co-dependency. There was a long time where he thought they may be in love, but in recent years he’d given up hope that they would ever realize it-- and then Cas died, and Sam wasn’t sure if Dean would ever find anyone to love him like that ever again. “So he’s coming back soon?”

“With proof,” Dean nods. “If he can bring Cas and Mom back, we’ll help him.”

“If not?” Sam wonders.

“I’m retired,” Dean reaffirms. “You’re your own person, Sam… If you want to help, you can, but… I’m done.”

“Alright,” Sam nods, following Dean’s gaze where it lingers on the mountains across the lake.

They stay there until the sun is high in the sky, the shattered remnants of Team Free Will waiting for some sign that things may be whole again one day.


	3. Everglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Everglow" by Coldplay

Sam and Dean are at the table debating the most recent episode of Dr. Sexy over sandwiches when the sounded sound of wings fills the room and Gabriel appears before them. Dean munches away on his half of the sandwich while Sam nearly topples his chair in his hurry to stand. He chokes for a second on his most recent bite before swallowing and staring at Gabriel.

“Hey there, gigantor,” Gabriel grins and Sam blinks a few times.

“Being completely honest,” Sam says slowly. “I thought Dean dreamt this whole thing.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Gabriel chuckles as he drops an armful of papers on the kitchen table. Dean barks a sound of warning, snatching his sandwich out of the way just in time to avoid catastrophe, but Gabriel ignores it. The papers look old, and the script is in a language Dean has never seen before. “Alright, Deano, here’s your proof.”

“What the hell is it?” Dean wonders as he sets his sandwich on the counter. He wants to touch the papers, but he’s afraid they may fall to dust.

“It’s ancient egyptian,” Sam says, and he’s looks for all the world like a little kid in a candy store as he flattens the papers on the table and skims them. 

“Gold star for Sam,” Gabriel says, picking up a sandwich half from Sam’s plate and taking a hearty bite. Same doesn’t react. “They’re instructions on how to resurrect a soul,”

“Cas didn’t have a soul,” Dean says at the same time Sam says, “But what about our Mom?”

“Dimensional travel is easy enough,” Gabe shrugs. “And Cas didn’t have a soul, but that’s not what we need this for-- we need to know how to summon the god of death.”

“Osiris?” Dean demands. “Hell no. I’ve already dealt with that guy once, and let’s just say that I’m glad things ended as nicely as they did,”

“Not Osiris,” Gabriel shakes his head, rifling through the papers - much to Sam’s dismay - and pulling one in particular out. He slides it across the table to Dean. There’s an extremely detailed drawing picturing a being with the body of man and the head of a wolf. “Anubis.”

“Whose dog boy?” Dean arches a brow and Sam and Gabriel exchange exacerbated looks.

“Anubis is the Egyptian guardian of the dead,” Sam explains. “He’s supposed to lead spirits to Osiris for judgement.”

“Well, sort of,” Gabriel interjects, and Sam casts him a confused look. “The real Anubis died with the Egyptians, when the empire fell. There’s was a big war in the cosmos, nothing worth mentioning really, but… A peace treaty was made and one of our own took Anubis’s place.”

“Nothing worth mentioning?” Sam gawks and Gabriel grins sideways at him before looking to Dean. 

“His name is Azrael. He used to be the angel of death. When the reapers came around though he lost his job, so it made sense to ship him off to the Egyptians,”

“Although I’m almost positive Sam is having a nerdgasm, get to the point.” Dean urges. Gabriel narrows his eyes before jabbing a finger at several paragraphs of writing beneath the image of Anubis. 

“This tells us how to summon Azrael. We need to do that to get Cas back.”

“Why?”

“When an angel dies, what’s left of their grace just… Floats away into the cosmos. Azrael makes a habit of collecting it and bottling it up. Dude is a freak about keeping records of birth and death,”

“So…” Sam trails off, and Dean picks up after him. “If there’s anything left of Cas, Azrael has it?”

“Exactly,” Gabriel nods, and Dean smacks a hand down on the table. 

“Great! Let’s do it! What do we need to summon good old Az?”

“That’s… A bit more complicated,” Gabriel clears his throat. “Um, you see… Azrael is bound to the land in Egypt-- it’s part of that whole peace treaty mess, you know? So he can’t leave.”

“You’re telling me we have to go to him?” Dean arches a brow. 

“Yes, and… With a sacrifice,”

“I’m sorry, what?” Sam demands.

“Azrael won’t just let us bring someone back-- it would throw off the balance in his little black book. He’ll want something, someone, in return.”

“Okay, we offer him up some poor sap. Anything else?”

“Dean,” Sam hisses. “We’re talking about killing someone.”

“I don’t like it either, Sam, but this is Cas.”

“The tribute has to be willing,” Gabriel points out, taking another bite of Sam’s sandwich. The taller man pushes the plate towards him without saying anything, and Gabriel grins.

“Well where the hell are we going to find someone like that?” Dean groans.

“Leave that part to me,” Gabriel mumbles around a mouthful. “Tribute’s also got to be of equal or greater value, so I’ve gotta go shopping for a suicidal angel,”

“What if you can’t find one?” Sam wonders and Gabriel shrugs. 

“You guys’ll figure it out. You Winchester’s always seem to,” He says, and Dean and Sam exchange looks. The archangel isn’t wrong.

“Anything else we need?” Dean wonders and Gabriel nods.

“You’ll need blood from Cas’s host, some of his hair, and something he treasured,” 

“He’s been buried for two months,” Dean nearly gags at the thought. “You really want me to dig him up just for that?”

“He shouldn’t decompose like a human,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “His body will keep at least a year before it starts rotting. Perks of having an angel riding around in your skin,”

“Alright… Alright. Sam, you, uh… You call work, tell them we’ve got family emergencies.” Dean says, turning towards the back door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a shovel.”

**⛦⛦⛦**

It’s nearing dinner-time when Dean is finished digging the hole. When his shovel strikes wood, it reverberates through his whole body. He tosses the shovel to the surface and crouches on his knees, ignoring the dirt where it clings to every inch of sweat-damp skin it can reach. He brushes the dirt to the side, off the surface of the coffin, and stares at his surface.

Can he do this?

What if Gabriel is wrong? What if he opens this damned pine box and finds the worms eating away at Cas’s pale flesh, those cerulean eyes nothing but black holes, his thin fingers nothing but bone.

He’s almost sick at the idea, and he forces it away.

Gabriel wouldn’t lie about something like this, he thinks (hopes), and he moves to the side, fumbling for the crowbar he’d looped through his belt and carefully sticking it in the crease at the side of the box. The lid had been nailed shut, and it takes a few hefty shoves before the nails finally give way and the lid cracks heavily. Dean sets the tool aside, holding the lid carefully, and inhales deeply.

Maybe he should have asked Sam to come out here.

He counts to three, and throws the lid open, flinching as if something might jump out at him.

Castiel looks like he’s sleeping.

Dean had put him in one of Sam’s clean flannels and a pair of Dean’s jeans before burying him. It wasn’t Cas’s signature look, and the flannel was comically large on him, but it was better than the blood stained clothes he died in.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean breathes, as if talking to him might make desecrating Castiel’s grave any less painful. He fumbles for the scissors in his back pocket, breathing sporadically as he reaches into the coffin and places a careful hand on his friend’s head. “You know, you… You don’t look too rough for being dead a couple of months,” 

He pets a hand through Cas’s dark hair, despite himself, bringing the scissors carefully forward and cutting a few soft strands away from the thickets hairs at the top of his head. He tucks them carefully in his shirt pocket and holds the scissors with the blades spread wide. “I know that this is so messed up, but please don’t haunt me, man.”

He takes one of Castiel’s hands in his own and turns it over, palm facing towards the sky.

He remembers how soft those palms were in his dream.

He shakes that thought away as quick as it comes. What the hell was wrong with him?

Carefully, he drags the blade of the scissors over Castiel’s palm until the skin gives way and blood wells to the surface.

Castiel bleeds like he’s alive. 

Dean feels sick as he uses a handkerchief to blot at the blood until it finally stops coming, and he can tuck the cloth away in his pocket with the hairs. He carefully settles Castiel’s hands over his chest once more and brushes dark hair away from his face. There’s still color in his cheeks, Dean thinks, and it looks for all the world like he’s sleeping.

“I’m gonna fix this, Cas,” He whispers. “I’m not gonna let you die like that.”

He stares a long time before carefully closing the coffin lid once more and climbing to the surface. He’s hyper aware of the tokens of Cas in his shirt pocket as he brushes dirt from his pants and reaches for the shovel, scooping up a pile of dirt and freezing before tossing it back in the hole.

He remembers a moment, years ago; waking up alone, in the dark, in a pine box.

He remembers fighting to the surface, wondering if he would choke on the dirt before he got there.

He tosses the shovel aside.

Their nearest neighbor is five miles down the lake, and too old to go boating.

No one will find the grave before they get Cas back, he thinks, and heads back into the house.

Gabriel and Sam are sitting at the kitchen table, talking quietly about something, and Dean fishes the hair and bloody napkin from his pocket and sets them on the table between them. 

“Did you get the trench coat?” He questions Sam and he nods, pointing to a bag on the floor at his side. Blood, hair, and something the angel had valued.

“Good. I’m going to go shower,” Dean sighs, shaking dirt out of his hair. “And then we’re going to Egypt.”


	4. Just One Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy

Gabriel uses his mojo to take them to Egypt. It’s nothing like Dean would have expected. In all honesty, it’s just a lot of heat, sand, and snotty tourists. All three of them look out of place in their dark shirts and worn blue jeans, but Gabriel moves like he owns the very path he walks on. As Dean and Sam struggle to keep up with the shorter man in the crowd, Sam can’t help but notice some of the beggars lying about bowing their heads as Gabriel passes.

“Do they know who you are?” He asks, and Gabriel slows his pace a bit to glance over his shoulder at the taller man.

“Not exactly, but… You’d be surprised how often I get that reaction from beggars all around the world,”

“Why?” Sam wonders, angling his words down towards the archangel. Dean is silent behind them, brooding, and all of the necessary ingredients to resurrect Castiel are clenched in his white-knuckled grip. They had yet to meet Gabriel’s mysterious sacrifice, but according to the archangel, he had things covered.

“The less people have in the world, the more pious they tend to be.” Gabriel shrugs, nodding at a man who drops to his knees as they pass. “Buddha was right in that respect, I suppose. The less Earthly belongings you have, the more you see what’s beyond the physical realm.”

“So they… Sense, that you’re better than them?” Sam arches a brow and Gabriel scoffs. 

“I’m flattered, Gigantor, but angels weren’t made to be superior,” Gabriel suddenly jerks left, down a narrow alley, and the Winchester’s follow faithfully. “If I was, Dad would have stopped with us.”

“I never really understood that,” Sam admits in a hushed tone, glancing at Dean over his shoulder. His brother is watching his shoes, not the least bit interested in the new country around them.

“Not much to understand, Sammy boy,” Gabriel shrugs. “We were flawed. Dad wanted something better,”

“But all of you are so… Strong, obedient.” Sam argues. 

“Dad wanted something soft, and intelligent. Capable of deciding for themselves what was right or wrong, and questioning their roles.” Gabriel says, and something in his face catches Sam off guard as the archangel glances at the human over his shoulder. “He wanted something…”

Gabriel trails off, coming to a stop in front of a tall door. It’s made of old, gnarled wood, and easily seven feet tall. Sam stands to his right, Dean behind them, and the hunter looks expectantly at Gabriel for a moment before asking, “He wanted something what?”

“Well… Something like you.”

Gabriel doesn’t look at him when he knocks on the door. 

Sam is a bit surprised at that statement, at its complementary nature, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before the door creaks open and a young girl peeks out at them. She can’t be more than eleven or twelve, and she watches them with wide olive-colored eyes. Her cheeks are sunburnt.

Gabriel smiles, stooping to one knee. 

“Anput,” He greets her like an old friend, and the girl watches him from under her lashes a long moment before holding out a hand. Gabriel takes it, and her small fingers look like grains of rice in his palm as he brings her knuckles to his lips and presses a light kiss there.

She utters something in Arabic and Gabriel rises to his feet, saying something back in a playful tone. The girl smiles, though it’s faint, and opens the door all the way. Gabriel steps in, motioning Sam and Dean to follow. Sam bows his head to the young girl, but Dean pays her little attention as they wander inside.

“Who is she?” Sam whispers, although he’s almost positive Anput doesn’t understand English.

“Tsk tsk,” Gabriel shakes his head. “And here I thought you knew your mythology-- Anput is the wife of Anubis,”

“Dude, she’s like… Twelve,” They seem to have garnered Dean’s attention once more as he looks disbelievingly between the young girl leading them down the hallway and Gabriel.

“Anput isn’t immortal like us. She lives out the length of a human life, and Anubis resurrects her-- or, well, Azrael, now. You get the point.”

“So she’s what, a prisoner of war? Her husband is dead, dude, that’s not right.” Dean hisses, and Anput glances at them over her shoulder. She holds up a hand in a motion to stop before slipping in a set of double doors and closing them behind her. Gabriel turns to face Dean, eyes narrowed.

“We didn’t force her into anything. Azrael offered to attend her the same way Anubis once did, and she agreed.”

“Still, she is just a kid.” Sam points out and Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“If you want to talk ‘wifely duties,’ boys, you can ask Azrael about it. But if I know Azrael, he loves Anput as much as Anubis ever did. He won’t hurt her.” Gabriel turns back to the doors, arms crossed over his chest. Sam and Dean exchange equally disturbed looks.

The doors before them opened once more, staying that way this time. Anput motioned them forward, standing to the side as they slowly moved inside. 

“Okay, uh… Word to the wise, boys,” Gabriel clears his throat as they move into the room. It’s cavernous, and the archangel's voice echoes against the stone walls. It looks for all the world like some crappy Hollywood set for a tomb-raiders movie. There are torches on golden stands, and a large throne at the head of the room. “Pick an eye and just… Stay with it.”

The brothers don’t have time to answer, or even question, as they approach the throne at the head of the room. Gabriel comes to a stop a few feet away, but Anput passes them to sit at the foot of the throne. She sits with her legs extended, looking for all the world like a child at ease as her eyes travel the room. 

“It has been awhile since I have had a visit from one of my brothers,” 

The voice shakes the very foundation of the building, and Sam and Dean step closer to one and other out of sheer instinct. They both touch the guns hidden in the back of their jeans.

“What can I say?” Gabriel calls back, glancing around the room. “I’m a family man,”

There’s a sound on the far wall, and suddenly a figure appears in the far corner. He a thin, sharply sculpted man, with a crop of dark hair and sunkissed skin. Every inch of his body is covered in freckles where there are not clothes, and he walks with his spine straight as he moves to the center of the room and comes to face Gabriel. He is a good two heads taller, but they stare eachother down like equals.

“It has been far too long, Gabriel,” The man smiles, and Dean and Sam exhale quietly as the two embrace fondly.

“You look good, Azrael,” Gabriel praises as his brother steps away, moving to the throne. He settles there with all the ease of a king, long fingers spilling over the edge of the stone arm-rests. He seems to shimmer every few seconds, like a ripple across his skin, but Dean blinks away the thought. He’s just seeing things. 

“Were it anyone else, I would assume this was a goodwill mission,” Azrael sighs, sparing Anput a glance where she reclines on the floor at his side. “But I know you well, brother mine. You have never been one to move without reason,”

The more Dean stares, the more he swears the dude’s skin really is rippling. He wants to believe that it’s just the dim torch lighting making his vision fuzzy, but he’s spent his life moving around in the dark; his night vision is as good as it comes. He takes a step forward, stopped only by Sam’s hand on his arm. He squints at Azrael, his hands, and almost drops Castiel’s things where they’re gathered in his arms.

“Can I not just drop in and say hey to my big brother?” Gabriel scoffs, at the same time Dean realizes that Azrael’s freckles aren’t freckles at all--

They’re eyes.

The dude’s skin is covered in thousands of miniscule eyeballs, all blinking out of sink. They’re different shades, every single one, some that Dean has never even seen before. Each one looks in different direction, and some are clouded with blindness. It’s unlike anything Dean has ever seen and he elbows Sam sharply in the ribs, jerking his chin forward. Sam arches a brow, but Dean simply mouths;

_Those aren’t freckles._

Sam glances at Azrael, and Dean watches his brother’s face as he comes to the same conclusion Dean had. 

“You forget that I see all, brother,” Azrael chuckles. “Although I do so miss your wit.”

“Fair enough,” Gabriel sighs, shrugging as he steps forward. “You know what I’m here for, then?”

“It is not you I am interested in,” Azrael says, and suddenly he’s looking at Dean. The hunter tenses, standing tall in the face of the angels gaze. His eyes are black, Dean realizes, no difference between the pupil and the iris. He studies Dean with a sort of childish curiosity, tilting his head. 

“The Winchester boys,” Azrael smiles. “I have so loved watching you grow.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or filling out a police report,” Dean gruffs, much to Gabriel and Sam’s clear dismay. Azrael seems entertained, despite them; he tosses his head back, letting out a gleeful laugh that echoes through the hall. Anput smiles at the sound.

“Such a treat to witness you with my own eyes rather than another’s, Dean,” Azrael praises. “What charming wit you have.”

“Look, as much as I’d love to chat and grab a beer, I didn’t come to Egypt for pleasure. I’m here on business.” Over the years, Dean has grown accustomed to the self-important ramblings of deities and angels; he’s kind of over it.

“Yes, of course.” Azrael straightens in his throne, crossing his legs. “You’re here for your angel.”

“Castiel.” Dean nods, not bothering to question how the hell this bajillion-eyed weirdo knew that. “Can you help?”

“Well,” Azrael sighs, rolling his neck. The eyes there widen with the movement and Dean tries to focus elsewhere. “I’ve never been known to be charitable, but with the right offerings, I believe I may be willing to help. After all, I did so love my younger brother. Castiel was so unique,”

“We’ve got your stuff,” Dean says, stepping forward and laying the items on the steps of the throne. He feels oddly cold without the trench coat in his arms. He steps back, and Sam takes a hold of his arm, pulling him behind Gabriel. The archangel is standing casually, hands in pockets. There’s a natural power emanating from him that feels safe to hide behind.

Azrael stares at the items at his feet with distaste. Anput glances at him expectantly, and he nods to her with a soft smile. She rises to her feet, collecting the items and passing them to her companion. He lays a delicate hand on her cheek, a silent message of thanks, and she smiles warmly before returning to her seat at his side. He turns the items over in his hands, humming a thoughtful sound.

“Do you have sacrifice?” He brings the blood soaked handkerchief to his nose, inhaling, and something protective rises in Dean’s gut. He almost wants to lunge forward and snatch the item out of the angel’s hands, but Sam’s hand on his arm holds him still.

“What happened to all-seeing?” Gabriel snorts, and Azrael smiles as he sets the handkerchief in his lap.

“I have never known you to be selfless, Gabriel,” Azrael looks at his brother. “I must say, I was worried my sights were off,” 

“It’s not my first choice, but… Sometimes you have to take one for the team,” Gabriel shrugs.

“What are you talking about?” Sam demands of the archangel as he steps forward, away from them. “What is he talking about?” He looks at Dean, as if his brother is any more clued into the conversation than he is.

“Are you sure?” Azrael wonders, and Gabriel nods as he comes to stand mere inches from his brother. Sam takes a step forward, and it’s Dean’s turn to hold him back. 

“Gabriel, what the hell is going on?” 

“We needed a willing sacrifice,” Gabriel says, glancing at Sam over his shoulder. He winks, grinning, and understanding crashes over both brother’s at the same time.

“ _No_ ,” Sam barks, at the same time Dean growls, “This wasn’t the deal, Gabriel!” 

“It is his choice,” Azrael holds a hand out, placing his palm gingerly against Gabriel’s chest. The Winchester’s begin to move forward, and Dean has his gun drawn, but Anput suddenly stands before them, blades at their throats. For a prepubescent girl, she holds her blades incredibly steady.

She barks something in Arabic that neither boy understands, but clearly means ‘just don’t.’

They are left watching, helpless, as Azrael’s hand slowly bleeds into Gabriel’s skin, elbow deep, and the archangel grits his teeth against the pain. Lights, colors that they’ve never seen, bleed into the room around them for one long moment, until suddenly Azrael is pulling his hand back with a horrible sound, and Gabriel crumples to a heap on the floor.

Sam flinches, and Dean watches blood drip down the edge of Anput’s blade where it is pressed to his brother’s throat.

Azrael sighs, drawing a jar from within the confines of his robes and carefully placing the moving remains of Gabriel’s grace inside. He tucks them away, wiping his hands distastefully on his clothes before waving a hand in Anput’s direction. 

She is gone as soon as she came, blades vanished somewhere unknown as she settles once more at her husband's side.

Sam rushes to Gabriel’s aid, and Dean stands shaking.

“There is no need for theatrics,” Azrael rolls his eyes as Sam carefully takes Gabriel’s face in his hands, patting his cheeks lightly in search of a response. “He isn’t dead.”

“You took his grace,” Dean spits.

“I took what was necessary to equate what was left of Castiel’s,” Azrael rolls his eyes. “It was a fair amount, but it will not kill him. In fact, he will still live longer than you mortals might. Not by much, perhaps half a century or so, but enough.”

“Fine,” Dean takes a step forward. “We gave you what you wanted, now pay up.”

“You have not given me all I asked for, yet,” Azrael tsks, standing from his throne. The trench coat falls haphazardly from his lap, but he keeps the blood and hair in hand.

“I require something of value to Castiel,”

“That’s the damn coat you just dropped,” Dean points to it. “He loved that thing.”

“But not as much as he loved you,” Azrael smiles, and suddenly he’s in Dean’s face. The hunter is frozen, and he sees Sam tense in the corner of her vision. “He gave his life for you. Devotion of that kind is rare,”

“You want my soul, then?” Dean growls, leaning closer to spit the words in the angel’s face. “Take it.”

“No, just… A piece.” Azrael smiles, and suddenly there is a hand elbow deep in Dean’s chest and the hunter is crying out in pain, something inside him ripping and tearing and wrong as Azrael digs inside him until he finds what he wants and pulls it from him. It’s all Dean can do not to faint when the angel retreats, and he falls to his knees, vision blurring a moment as Azrael turns what looks a tangled mess of golden string around in his hand.

“Dean?” Sam demands, but he hasn’t left Gabriel’s side. He knows better; Dean will see this through, no matter what it takes. 

“‘M okay,” Dean pants, though he still isn’t sure what it is Azrael has taken from him as the angel returns to his throne, setting all the items in his seat. The golden string shimmers, moving on its own like a headless, tormented snake.

“What the hell did you do to me?” He demands, rubbing at his chest. He feels hollow, different than how he has felt since losing Cas. The ache is still there, of course, but not as… Dire. No, this feels different; it feels like he’s not feeling.

“Castiel would have rather died than have lost your, oh… What was it he called it? A ‘profound bond?’” 

“What?” Dean hisses.

“Your bond? He never told you it was physical, I suppose; a living thing. It was why you two felt so connected, why you’ve grieved him so sincerely,”

“He’s my best friend, of course I’m grieving him,” Dean snarls, but the words feel hollow.

“We’ll see,” Azrael winks, motioning Anput to gather the items he’s set in his throne. She does so, disappearing into a door on the far wall. Azrael stands over Dean, arms crossed over his chest. Thousands of eyes watch as Dean struggles to his feet, and Azrael demands.

“Follow me.”


	5. Welcome Back to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates, folks! Balancing college, work, and a social life (hah, barely) is very time-consuming.

Sam tries to follow them, but Azrael holds out a single hand in a clear motion for him to stop. Dean doesn’t particularly want to follow this freak on his own, but he knows he doesn’t have much of a choice at this point. He’s made it this far, and Gabriel is still comatose on the floor; there’s no turning back. So he nods at Sam, silently telling him everything will be fine, and turns to follow Azrael through the same door that Anput has disappeared behind.

This room is a little less dark, but crowded. There are shelves as far as Dean can see, each one crowded with small jars like the one that Azrael had forced Gabriel’s grace into. There are careful labels beneath each one, Dean notices, but he can’t read what they say. Azrael pays them little mind, but Dean is fascinated with each one - each soul - where it shimmers inside its glass cage. 

Azrael leads them through the maze of shelves with ease, until they leave the shelves behind all together and enter a separate chamber which is much brighter than the other one. This room is much smaller, and its center is hollowed. The floor beneath Dean’s feet is marble, and the roof is glass Dean realizes; the sun is streaming down from above, bathing the whole room in bright white light. There are shelves here, too, but they line the perimeter of the room and are made of a metal that Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

Azrael motions Dean to stop near the door, and he does so, watching as the angel walks to the far shelf and carefully retrieves the jar from within his robes which contains Gabriel’s grace. He examines it a moment before reaching for a different jar on the shelf, retrieving it, and setting Gabriel’s jar in it’s place. The label seems to change itself, the letters and numbers moving around before settling. 

When Azrael turns around, Dean recognizes the golden white ball of energy in the jar he’s holding. It bobs and weaves like a firefly, thumping against the lid of its jar.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and Azrael nods.

“He is spirited, even in death.” The angel chuckles, shaking the jar a bit. The formless being within seems to almost hum as it races away from the edges of the glass.

Dean hadn’t noticed Anput where she was hovering in the corner, but the girl says something quietly that captures Azrael’s attention. The angel nods quietly and answers her apparent question, motioning to a basin Dean hadn’t noticed at the edge of the room. It looks like a water trough for an animal, but Dean is sure it must have a more significant meaning as Anput approaches it. She sets the items that Dean had brought with him inside, as well as the golden string that Azrael had ripped from within him, and lifts the whole trough as if it weighs nothing.

She carries it to the center of the room and sets it before Dean, who stares into the relatively empty interior with an arched brow.

“I’m not getting in the tub with you without something to drink first,” Dean snarks and Azrael smiles as he steps over to the trough, holding the jar containing Cas’s grace out towards Dean. He swallows, nervous, and takes it gingerly in his hands as if just touching it might break it. It surprises him how warm the glass is, almost hot, and the little ball of light goes still within.

Dean thinks, with more than a little satisfaction, that Cas’s grace might recognize him.

Azrael isn’t paying him any mind now. He’s kneeled before the trough, his delicate fingers perched on its edge and his head bowed. He speaks softly to himself in a language Dean doesn’t understand, whispers of ritual intent, and Dean jumps at the sudden sound of liquid sloshing inside the trough. He takes a step closer to peer inside, and is shocked to see dark, rich colored blood filling the space. 

The golden string floats on top a moment before drowning.

Anput comes to stand beside her husband, her delicate fingers curled over his shoulder. She looks much older than she is, at this moment; her eyes are dark.

“Open.” Her English is harsh, but clear enough as she points to the jar cradled in Dean’s hands. He blinks a few times, but nods, carefully grasping the lid and pulling until it opens with an audible pop.

The little light inside shoots out like a firefly in seek of freedom, buzzing near Dean’s face a moment before suddenly whizzing away and diving quickly into the now full trough of blood.

Dean blinks a few times, and lets the jar fall to the marble floor.

“In,” Anput demands, pointing to the trough. Azrael is still bent over it, whispering, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the surface of the liquid. “Get in,”

“Hell no,” Dean growls, and Anput simply points at the liquid.

“In. Angel needs help.” She demands, and Dean makes a face. Should he take his shoes off? His clothes? What did she mean Castiel needed help? He doesn’t have much time to think, because Anput is shouting at him again, “In!”

Dean doesn’t bother to complain as he sloshes his way into the trough, nose wrinkling at the smell. When his feet hit the bottom, he’s nearly waist deep. It didn’t seem that big from the outside, hell, it looked like it was only a foot deep from outside, but somehow it swallows nearly half of his body. He shifts uneasily on his feet, glancing towards Anput for instructions. 

“Reach,” Is all she says, motioning to the liquid in front of him. Dean swallows uneasily. “Find him.”

Dean isn’t sure what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but he bends forward, putting a hand in the liquid, fingers splayed wide, and feels around.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his hand touches something solid.

“Pull,” Anput demands, and Dean isn’t one to argue. He closes his hands around the unknown object, braces his feet against the bottom and pulls.

It’s harder than he would have thought and he shoves his other hand into the muck to get a better grip, gritting his teeth and yanking until the muscles in his arms are trembling with effort. Anput is saying something in Arabic again, and Azrael is nearly yelling now, and Dean isn’t sure what in the hell is going on as he drags this unknown thing to surface, fighting and grunting and pulling until--

Dark hair breaches the surface, and everything seems to explode.

Dean doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he’s suddenly lying on his back on the marble floor, staring at the sky-light overhead in stunned disbelief.

The room is eerily quiet, and Dean groans at the pain in his chest as he slowly drags himself to his knees, breathing hard as he looks around. He’s covered in blood, and it stains the marble floor as he tries to stand, looking around until he notices Azrael standing with Anput, both of them staring down into the trough.

“They don’t often survive the regeneration process,” Azrael seems awed as Dean slips his way over, the blood making each step a slick fall-danger. He stops in front of the trough and bends over, looking in, and nearly chokes at the sight. 

Castiel is staring up at him with wide eyes from inside, naked as the day he was born.

“Dean?” He gruffs, and his voice is just like Dean remembered it. He’s frozen for a moment, simply staring, before he shakes his head and comes back to his senses.

“Cas,” He reaches in a hand, offering it, and Castiel takes it timidly, allowing Dean to haul him to his feet. Dean keeps his gaze on Castiel’s face out of respect, clearing his throat. He doesn’t know what to say, how to voice everything he’s been feeling, so he simply settles on something familiar. “Hey, buddy.”

“What happened?” Castiel sounds dazed as he looks around the room. “Where are we?”  
“What do you remember?” Dean asks, helping the angel to step out of the trough and onto the marble floor. He’s completely clean, Dean notices, not a drop of blood or gunk on him. 

“Kelly. She was giving birth, and Lucifer…” Castiel blinks a few times before looking to Dean with an uncomfortable gaze. “Why am I alive?”

“It’s a long story, but man am I glad to see you,” Dean sighs, smiling a bit as he claps his companion on the shoulder. Castiel smiles a bit at him, then glances at his bloody clothes, and down at his own body.

“Why am I naked?”

Azrael suddenly clears his throat, and they both turn to see the angel stepping forward, offering his robe. His clothes beneath are still layered, hiding most of his body. Dean takes a step forward, taking the cloth and passing it to Castiel.

“Azrael,” Castiel recognizes his brother, watching him as Dean practically dresses the angel. Castiel pulls the robe closed over his nude body and Dean has never been more grateful for a piece of fabric in his life. 

“Hello, Castiel,” Azrael greets.

“Who did you trade?” Castiel suddenly demands, his eyes narrow as he glares at Dean.

“It wasn’t my choice,” Dean sighs.

“Gabriel made the sacrifice,” Azrael informs, but Castiel is still watching Dean.

“Gabriel?” 

“You missed a lot while you were…. Away,” Dean hesitates. He realizes his hand is still on Castiel’s shoulder, gripping tight as if he might disappear. It was unreal, seeing him here, breathing, speaking. It felt like if Dean blinked, the angel might disappear. His fingers twitch against the angel’s shoulder but he doesn’t let go. He isn’t sure he can, yet. He looks to Azrael again, clearing his throat. “Are we done?” 

“There is nothing more we can offer each other,” Azrael nods, and he offers a hand to Anput, who takes it. “You may show yourselves out.” 

They disappear down the hall, and leave Dean and Cas standing in the marble room alone. Dean doesn’t turn to face Castiel yet, instead just holding his shoulder in silence.

“Dean,” Castiel rasps, and it breaks something inside the hunter. He turns, not bothering to speak as he throws his arms around Castiel and holds on for dear life. Cas is solid in his arms, real, and after a beat of hesitation he holds Dean back. His hands are two soft points of contact against Dean’s back and it relaxes the hunter in a way he hasn’t been in weeks.

Yet… It’s not nearly as relieving as Dean would have thought.

Yes, it’s nice to have Castiel back. Yes, that hole inside him has been plugged. But, there’s something different about this. His crippling need to have Castiel back felt more like a want, now, and less like something he needed to survive. Moments ago, before Castiel was back, Dean would have been willing to live with the result if Castiel hadn’t survived the reanimation. Something in him said that it wouldn’t be like before, staring out into oblivion and feeling unsure about whether or not life was worth it without the angel around.

He lets Cas go, and smiles at him despite his thoughts.

“You feel okay?” He asks, and Castiel nods. There are dark circles under his eyes, Dean notes, and his cheeks are pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept in months.

“I feel tired,” Castiel confirms his concerns. “Otherwise, I am fine considering the circumstances.”

“Considering the circumstances, right,” Dean huffs, shaking his head. He takes Castiel gently by the elbow and begins to pull him carefully towards the exit. “Alright, feathers. Let’s blow this joint,”


	6. And The Birds Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "And The Birds Sing" by Tyrone Wells

Dean stays closer to Castiel’s than might be considered socially acceptable. Castiel stumbles every few steps, as if he doesn’t have enough energy to carry himself, and Dean finally gives up and winds an arm around his waist and drags one of Castiel’s arms over his shoulders. They move quicker this way, and Castiel looks thankful for the support. Dean steers them back into the main hall, where Sam and Gabriel are still in the floor where he left them.

“Dean--” Sam starts to say, and then freezes when he notices the figure Dean is practically carrying with him. “Holy shit,”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel smiles, and Dean stops once he reaches their friends on the floor. Castiel sways slightly and Dean tightens his grip. 

“It’s good to see you,” Sam smiles, and Dean glances at the archangel that’s barely awake in Sam’s grip. 

“How’s he doing?” Dean jerks his head towards Gabriel, who groans slightly where his head is cradled in Sam’s lap. 

“He’s alive,” Sam’s smile dies. “But… There’s no way he can get us back to the states. Could Cas…?”

“No way.” Dean answers for the angel, who glares at him out of the corner of his eye. Dean turns to meet his gaze. “You can barely walk, Cas.”

“I have maybe a hundred bucks in cash. If we can find somewhere that converts currency, maybe we find somewhere to hole up for the night,” Sam suggests, and Dean nods. It’s as good a plan as any.

“You can pay for the cab,” Gabriel manages to sit up, but Sam keeps a careful hand on his back for good measure. Dean is acutely aware of how bad this situation is. They are stuck in a completely unfamiliar city with two powered-down angels and limited weapons and cash. “I’ve got the rest covered.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam demands, and he scrambles to his feet as Gabriel finally manages to stand and smiles a little at the sight of Castiel. 

“You alright?” He says, and Castiel nods at Dean’s side.

“Thanks to you.”

Gabriel nods firmly, then looks to Sam. “I knew Castiel and I wouldn’t be in traveling shape. I got in contact with a friend of mine and he’s letting us use one of his permanent-reserve places as long as we need it,”

“Great,” Dean gruffs, shifting under Castiel’s ever-increasing weight. The angel looks like he might pass out any second. “Let’s leave the small talk for later and get there, alright? I’m not sure how much longer feathers here is gonna last,”

Gabriel nods, turning towards the doors and leading the way. He acts as if he didn’t just lose a chunk of his grace, but Sam knows better so he sticks close to the archangels side as he moves. Gabriel watches the taller man out of the corner of his eye, distantly aware of Dean practically dragging Castiel along behind them.

“You have something to say?” He probes. He can practically see the gears in the giant’s head turning. 

“Thank you,” Sam nods. “I… This means more to Dean than I think he’ll ever say.”

“I know.” Gabriel nods, and they don’t say anything else as he leads them back out of the narrow alleyways and into the main-strip again. It’s busier here, more urban and less ancient-egyptian-marketplacey. Gabriel hails a cab easy enough, and they all try to ignore the concerned look of the cabby as they all huddle in the back. Dean is still soaked from the armpits down in rust-colored blood, and Castiel winds up awkwardly perched in his lap in the cramped space. 

Gabriel issues a firm order in Arabic and slides the entirety of Sam’s wad of bills in the cabbies hand. He nods, and hits the gas. Castiel jerks backwards, and Dean tightens his grip, saying nothing as the angel apparently gives into his exhaustion and his head falls to Dean’s shoulder.

“What now?” Sam wonders absently to Gabriel, who is crammed between the Winchester’s. Sam is pressing hard into the door, trying to give him as much space as he can.

“All we can do now is rest,” Gabriel admits. “Until Cassie powers back up, and I get used to the whole… Basically human thing, we’re all pretty useless.”

“What about the antiChrist?”

“We won’t be any good against him like this,” Gabriel motions between the four of them. Dean is watching out the window with a blank expression, and Castiel is soundly asleep against him. Gabriel looks like he wants to join him, but knows he can’t.

“Okay.” Sam nods, turning his gaze out the window, and for the rest of the ride they say nothing else.

When they arrive at the hotel, Sam isn’t quite sure what to say and a quick glance at Dean says he feels the same. The cab bumps along on a cobblestone drive and then stops in front a narrow looking building. However, behind it is poised a massive tower which Sam thinks might be the actual hotel. A man opens the door, and Sam climbs out, Gabriel behind him, and - after a moment of Dean shaking Cas awake - Dean and Cas practically fall out. Dean hasn’t stopped touching Cas, Sam notices; even now, he keeps an arm around the angel’s waist as they follow Gabriel up clothed steps and into a grand lobby.

There’s an impressive glass chandelier overhead, and a sleek black grand piano dead ahead. The floors are tiled and Gabriel heads straight for the receptionist as the rest of them hover nervously near the door. 

Gabriel speaks quietly to a petite receptionist, who nods a few times and then glances over his shoulder at them. Her eyes land on Sam, and then Dean. She looks frightened for a minute, and, it’s understandable given his brother’s current state, he thinks. She and Gabriel exchange a few more words before he steps away from the desk and motions them to follow him up a winding grand staircase carved out of rich, dark wood. 

The stairs are a struggle for Castiel and it takes both Sam and Dean’s help to get him to their floor. By the end, they’re basically carrying him, but it’s a relief that he’s even here so they don’t mind. Gabriel leads them down the hall a bit and finally stops at a room near the end, fitting key into lock and ushering them all inside. 

They enter into a hallway, sleek reflective tiles underfoot. Gabriel leads them down it and to the left, into an open space. Dean and Sam hurry to lower Castiel into a cushioned chair, and it isn’t until this task is complete that they actually have time to notice their surroundings.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, and Sam couldn’t agree more.

They’re standing in a wide living room, two different arm chairs and matching couches settled on a rug in the center. There’s a television on the wall opposite them, but that’s not what’s caught their eyes. The curtains are pulled away from the windows that cover every inch of the wall except for where the TV is, and the Nile river is laid out before them like a painting, boats moving gracefully across it’s surface.

“Bedroom is that way,” Gabriel says, unimpressed, pointing. “Kitchen and dining room through there, and bathroom that way. There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you, Deano, but we’ll have to figure something out for the rest of us.”

“Who the hell is your friend?” Dean wonders, approaching the window slowly. “How the hell can he afford this?”

“Doesn’t matter who he is. He invests in this place, though, and he basically lives here. I just happened to catch him while he’s on vacation, thank God,”

Both of the brother’s stare for awhile longer, still awestruck, but Dean is the first to shake off his stupor. He returns to where Castiel is barely conscious in the armchair and mumbles something to the angel before picking him up bridal style and carrying him into the room Gabriel had previously pointed out as the bedroom. Sam watches as Dean lowers Castiel carefully into the king sized bed and says something to him, low enough they can’t hear, before returning and carefully drawing the bedroom doors closed.

“He’ll be out for awhile,” Dean says, and Sam and Gabriel nod. “You should rest, too, Gabriel.”

“That’s the plan,” Gabriel snorts, flopping down on one of the couches and crossing his arms over his chest. “Wake me if there’s an emergency.”

He’s asleep within minutes and Dean joins Sam where he’s hovering in front of the window still. 

“Maybe we can stick around a few days,” Dean says quietly, acutely aware of the two sleeping angels. “Go see some temples or something. Know you used to be obsessed with Egyptian history in middle school.”

“Really?” Sam arches a brow.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s. “I can suffer through a few nerdy things, I guess,”

Sam smiles, shaking his head. They stand there a few more minutes before Dean sighs, looking down at himself. “Think I’m gonna hit the shower,” He announces, turning and heading off into the suite. Sam calls quietly after him and he pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.

“Yeah?”

“It’s good to see you smile.” Sam says, even though he knows it might make his older brother uncomfortable. Dean chuckles, glancing towards the bedroom door. 

“It’s nice to win for once,” He says, then turns and disappears down the hall. Sam chuckles, turning back to the window and sighing happily.

He watches the water for a long time. 

He thinks his mom would have liked this.


	7. Til We Grow Older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: Cha-Ching (Til We Grow Older) by Imagine Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying this because I'm honestly head over heels with writing it. I'm having fun picking out songs for each chapter too. Let me know in the comments how you guys are feeling.

It takes a solid hour to scrub the blood and gunk off Dean’s body once he makes it into the shower. He figures his clothes are a lost cause and simply tosses them in the small trash-can under the counter after undressing, sighing; those were his favorite jeans. He does his best not to be overly impressed with the pristine white shade of the bathroom, or the unnecessarily large shower, or even the size of the fogged-over mirror when he finally steps out and winds a towel - a thick, fluffy towel - around his waist. 

When Dean steps back into the apartment, the steam rushes out of the bathroom and the chill of the air conditioning peppers his still damp skin with goose bumps. He glances to and fro before making a dash for the closet Gabriel had earlier pointed out, fishing inside and grabbing the first of everything he saw; underwear, pants, and shirt. He then darted back into the retreating warmth of the bathroom and closed the door before any more heat could sneak out.

He laid the clothes out on the counter, slipping into the patterned boxer briefs first. They fit surprisingly well, almost as comfortable as his own, but when he slid into the dark-washed jeans, they were a little loose around the waist. The shirt, a plain white v-neck cotton tee, was looser than he would have liked as well. He glanced at his reflection - or what he could make of it, through the layer of steam on the glass - and deemed himself presentable after pulling his fingers through his hair a few times.

When he stepped out of the bathroom this time, he didn’t bother sneaking around. He left the door open behind him for the sake of airing out the space and moved quietly towards the main room where he’d left Sam and Gabriel. He hesitated as he passed the closed bedroom doors, straining to listen for any sounds inside. He swore he could hear the soft intake and exhale of Castiel’s breath, but he knew his brain was just playing tricks on him. He lingered a moment longer, making sure he didn’t hear any signs of distress, before moving away.

The view of the Nile from the main room still shocked him a little, but he didn’t pay it much attention as he scanned the room. Gabriel was turned towards away from him, back to the room and face mashed into the couch cushions. He was snoring a little, and it would have amused Dean to see an archangel in such a powerless state if it wasn’t for the unfortunate situation it put them in. Gabriel still had another promise to keep - rescuing their mother - and Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to pull through on that part of the deal in his powered-down state. 

“Hey,” Dean looked up to find Sam peeking at him from a doorway across the room, motioning him forward. He spared one more glance the sleeping archangel before padding over, into a dining room. Sam closes the door behind them, effectively shutting the sleeping angels off from any noise they might make.

Dean glances around the dining room. He hadn’t seen it earlier, but it’s just as nice as the rest of the suite. The furniture is simple and tasteful, and the table dominates the space. Sam moves around it and into the joint kitchenette, and Dean follows his lead. Sam motions Dean to the counter, where there’s a note. Dean picked it up, reading over it.

**Brother,  
I have prepared the suite in anticipation of your state.   
There is food in the fridge, and other human necessities throughout the suite.  
Charge all in-house expenses to my accounts.   
There is cash and a card in the safe for out-of-house expenses.**

**Best,  
Barachiel **

Dean sets the note aside, raising an eyebrow at his brother. 

“Barachiel?” 

“Another archangel,” Sam informs where he’s leaning into the open fridge, examining its contents. He mumbles to himself a moment before pulling out a tupperware and closing the fridge door, turning around and setting it on the counter in front of Dean. Dean slides the note out of the way and opens the tupperware, raising a brow at its contents as Sam continues, “He’s the angel of lightning or something. I don’t remember reading much about him. He’s not very popular,”

“Well, he seems decent enough if he’s giving Gabriel access to his bank account,” Dean says, searching through the drawers for silverware and grunting when he finds it. He holds out a fork to Sam, who takes it, and then retrieves one for himself. 

The dish inside the tupperware looks like rice and macaroni on the bottom, but there’s chickpeas on top and onions - are those onions, or beans? - sprinkled around the edges. It’s the oddest looking dish Dean has ever seen, but he’s starving so he skewers as much as he can and shoves it in his mouth, cold. 

He gags, immediately, and rushes for the sink. Spitting it out, he turns his head to the side and catches the water from the faucet in his mouth. He gargles and spits, listening to Sam snickering behind him.

“What is that?” He demands and Sam picks up the tupperware lid, glancing at a label Dean hadn’t noticed. 

“Kushari,” Sam gives it a name as he picks it up and takes it to the microwave, putting it in and turning it on. “And it’s probably better hot.”

“It’s a bunch of rabbit food,” Dean grumbles, spitting again and washing it out of the sink before turning it off and returning to the fridge. Sam chuckles, ignoring him, and Dean searches the labeled tupperwares until he finds something that looks like ground beef cooked into bread. The label reads Hawawshi, and he has no idea what to make of that, but it can’t be worse than what he just ate so he removes the lid and puts it in the microwave after Sam is done reheating his nasty stuff.

They prepare their separate meals and eat in silence for a moment. Hawawshi is actually pretty good, Dean decides. It’s some kind of minced meat - lamb, he thinks - and bread and peppers and it sort of makes him think of an Egyptian version of Philly Cheese Steak, minus the cheese. 

“What now?” Sam says, shaking him from his thoughts, and Dean raises a brow. They’re both standing at the kitchenette counter eating, shoulders nearly touching, and Sam has a pensive look on his face. He glances at Dean and adds, “There’s no way to get to Mom now. Cas and Gabe are both down for the count, and the antiChrist is on the loose. What now?”

“We do what we always do,” Dean shrugs, taking another bite and chewing a long moment before finishing, “We just keep moving to the next thing.”

“What are we moving towards if we don’t help with this, Dean?” Sam sighs, pushing a chickpea around with his fork. “Minimum wage jobs and a shitty life in the lake house? We’re good at hunting, we can make a difference. We’re just…. Useless, everywhere else.”

“You could go back to law school,” Dean frowns. He doesn’t like hearing his brother talk like this, and he really doesn’t want to start fighting right now. His mood is too good right now. They’ve got Cas back, something good had finally happened after all this bad-- and Sam wants to pick a fight now?

“With what money, Dean? Under what name?” Sam sighs, pushing his food away all together. Dean watches him carefully. “I just… I think we have a responsibility here, whether Gabriel can uphold his end of the deal or not.”

“A responsibility?” Dean huffs, shaking his head. “Sam, you’ve had ‘responsibilities’ since you were six months old. Don’t you think it time for someone else to take a turn? I mean, hell, I don’t know about you but I’m getting too old for this. My body can still take it, man, but my heart, whatever's left of my soul…” 

Dean trails off, staring down at the counter. His hands are clenched into fists. He didn’t mean to go that far, to let Sam that far in. He exhales slowly through his nose. 

“I can’t take much more, Sammy.” He finishes, and Sam is quiet a moment.

“What if I can?” 

Dean looks up, taking in his brother’s expression. Sam has that look he gets when he’s determined to do something, permission be damned, but his eyes are begging for Dean’s blessing. He knows he already told Sam that he could do what he wants, but he also knows that Sam wants to hear him say that he’ll be okay if he does. He isn’t sure if he will be or not, but he sighs anyways, shaking his head.

“I won’t stop you.” He says, but holds up a hand when Sam begins to smile. “I’m not going to like it, and I’m sure you know that, but I can’t stop you. God knows the world needs someone right now, and… If you think it’s you, then I have no right to make that decision for you. I’ve done it too many times, and it never gets us anywhere good.”

Sam is grinning, and before Dean knows it he’s being squashed in a too-tight Sam hug. He grunts, squirming, and elbows his baby brother just below the ribs but to no avail. After a moment he relaxes into it, patting Sam’s back twice.

“Alright, alright,” He huffs. “Now let me go.”

They’re both grinning when they pull apart and Sam goes back to his food, Dean popping the top back on his own dish and sliding it back in the fridge. 

“I’m gonna go check on Cas,” He says, and Sam grunts his affirmation as his older brother leaves the room. Gabriel is still snoring when he passes through the living room, and he does his best to be quiet as he cracks the bedroom door and slips quietly inside. It’s dimmer in here, the curtains pulled closed, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. 

The bed in the center of the room is huge, the blankets white and fluffy and pristine like everything else in the suite. Castiel is resting on top of them, still in Azrael’s robes; he hasn’t moved at all since Dean laid him there, a pillow tucked carefully under his head and neck and another under his knees. His hands are flat at his sides, eyelashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks, and for a moment Dean is frozen.

He looks like he’s dead.

Dean shakes away the thought, reminding himself that Castiel is, in fact, alive. He wouldn’t be stranded in this Egyptian hotel with none of his clothes, none of his effects, if Castiel was still dead. He moves closer to the bed, despite himself, watches Castiel’s chest as it rises and falls. It’s an odd kind of comfort, and after a moment he breaks away from the sight and moves over to a chair on the far wall, lowering himself into it.

The room is blissfully quiet, and Dean can hear each breath that enters and leaves Castiel’s lungs. It relaxes him, and he leans his head against the back of the chair and closes his eyes. 

He again is struck by how strange it is to have Castiel back. The bone crippling need doesn’t seem as dire, even now as he thinks back on it, and he realizes that he may have been a bit obsessive about the whole thing. He wonders if Azrael's removal of his and Castiel’s bond had something to do with this, this sudden…. Lack of crippling despair at Castiel’s death, or the strange sort of simple contentment upon his return, rather than the complete elation he had expected to feel.

Had his and Castiel’s entire friendship been built on that little golden string?

He banishes the thought. While he might not feel what he expected, he knows he does feel. He knows he’s happy to have his friend back, that the sounds of his breath are enough to lull Dean towards sleep. He knows that things are different, the bond is no longer ‘profound’ in an angelic sense, but it’s still profound to Dean and that’s all that matters.

“Dean,” Dean jumps, reaching for a gun that isn’t near him, his neck pulling awkwardly as he opens his eyes and finds Castiel staring him down. The angel is sitting on the edge of the bed looking much more rested, and he smiles a little when Dean’s eyes find him. “It’s dawn.”

“What?” Dean blinks, wincing as he rubs at his sore neck. He didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep; the last thing he remembers was contemplating his and Castiel’s relationship, and that only felt like seconds ago. 

“You fell asleep.” Castiel says. “I would have moved you, but I was worried I would wake you.”

“How long have you been up?” Dean wonders, standing and stretching. His back pops and the muscles in his leg stretch pleasantly.

“Only an hour.” Castiel assures him. His eyes follow Dean’s every movement. “I would have let you sleep longer, but I can hear Sam and Gabriel in the other room.”

“Duty calls,” Dean sighs, looking his friend over. Castiel’s hair is plastered to the back of his head, but sticking straight up on the sides and Dean has the sudden overwhelming urge to touch him. Normally, he would stop himself, but right now he’s barely awake and Castiel is back and he finds his fingers in the angel's hair, pushing and combing until it lays the way Dean is used to it.

Those big blue eyes are watching him, a smile hinting at the corner of his mouth, and Dean steps away after a moment.

“You’re a mess.” He accuses, and leaves it at that before turning his back and hurrying out of the room. His cheeks are heated as he steps into the living room and he thinks briefly of the dream in which Castiel kissed him before shoving it back down into the darkest recesses of his mind. 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” Sam steals his attention. He’s sitting on the couch next to Gabriel. They’re both stooped over several different newspapers where they’re spread across the coffee table. Dean feels more so than sees Castiel approach from behind him, and they both move to sit on the couch opposite Gabriel and Sam. Their knees are touching.

“What’s that?” Dean asks Sam, but Gabriel answers before he can.

“We’re looking for anything that might tip us off about the antiChrist,” Gabriel is scratching at his chin as he flips another page. 

“What about Mom?” Dean demands, “Did we forget about that part of this?”

“Calm down,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “We have a plan.”

“Obviously Cas and Gabe can’t open a portal,” Sam says, before Dean can bite Gabriel’s head off. Castiel is blissfully silent beside Dean. “But the antiChrist can. If we can talk to him, get him to--”

“You want the antiChrist to help us?” Dean interupts, looking between Sam and Gabriel. “Have you lost your minds?”

“He’s been on the loose for months, Dean, and there hasn’t been a single incident.” Sam tries, “Kelly said there was something good in him, and maybe she’s right,”

“He got Cas _killed_ , and Mom _trapped in an alternate universe_ , how the hell is there anything good in that?” 

“Dean,” Castiel tries softly. “I know you’re upset, but… I think their idea might work.”

“Of course you would, baby Satan brainwashed you, Cas!” Dean snaps, and immediately feels bad when Castiel’s expression hardens. 

“I was fully conscious of my decisions.” Castiel snaps.

“Yeah, and it got you dead, Cas,” Dean’s voice is softer now. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to track this guy down and see if he’ll help us out?”

“I am the closest thing to a father he knows.” Castiel’s tone has softened again as well. “I have a better chance of interacting with him than anyone else.”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, looking out the window to the Nile in the distance. “No. You can’t do that.”

“Dean--”

“No, Cas.” Dean barks, meeting those blue eyes where they’re digging into him like confused daggers. “No.”

“You can’t decide what I can and cannot do.” Castiel says, but the force in his voice isn’t angry. 

“I just got you back,” Dean hisses, surprising himself and apparently Gabriel and Sam as well with the vehemence in his voice as they both look up from their papers. “I’m not letting you jump right back in harm's way.”

“Dean, I--”

“I am not losing you again.” Dean says, and his tone is final. Castiel seems to understand, finally, why Dean is resisting so hard. Dean hates the pity in his expression as he cants his head to the side and watches Dean carefully. 

“You will not loose me.” He assures, and his voice is quiet; the words are for Dean alone, the hunter thinks. “I am already feeling much better, Dean. I can do this.” 

“What if this kid isn’t what you thought?” Dean sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. Castiel surprises him, reaching out a hand and resting it on Dean’s knee. 

“He will be.”

This time, Castiel’s tone is final, and Dean is helpless to do anything but nod. Castiel stares at him a moment longer before smiling and turning his attentions to Sam and Gabriel. They begin plotting, the three of them, and Dean can do nothing but silently stare at Castiel’s hand where it never moves from his knee.


End file.
